


The Blood Brother

by Bolt_DMC



Category: Bolt (2008)
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Literature, Movie Reference, Music, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-27 19:58:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20413462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bolt_DMC/pseuds/Bolt_DMC
Summary: Bolt, Mittens, and Rhino have just moved to the country after the dog and Penny had left the show. Bolt makes a new friend straightaway, but things may not be what they seem. Will his new pal impact his friendship with Mittens and Rhino for good or ill? Primary cultural references include the album "Pretzel Logic" by Steely Dan as well as everything from Charlie Parker to Bruce Springsteen to Saki to Spike Lee.





	The Blood Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: January-February 2009.
> 
> For Caspar M.

Part I: Barrytown

Penny, her mom, and the three pets moved into their new farmhouse residence not long after the girl and her dog had left the show. In an area where homes were surrounded by fields and distances of up to a mile sometimes separated households, the term "next door neighbor" was relative, to say the least.

Bolt’s first day of exploration took him to his purported next door neighbor to the east, where a couple in their late 30s named Walter and Gwendolyn, their teenaged son Frank, and his dog Duke lived. The little white shepherd spied his canine counterpart pursuing a flock of starlings in the front yard and cautiously decided to investigate. The pooch he saw was an English cocker spaniel, sporting a coat color of solid red and his breed’s usual floppy ears and luxuriant fur. He was particularly energetic, with an intensely nervous air about him and facial expressions that mixed intelligence and impatience. Still, he seemed to be an approachable enough fellow. Stepping to the edge of the yard, Bolt wagged his tail and did a play bow. This wasn't his property, so he wanted the spaniel to know his intentions were friendly.

"Welcome, stranger," said the red dog with a tail wag and grin of his own. "Just driving off some winged freeloaders. Can't say I've seen you around before. Did your humans move in recently?"

"Yup, about a week ago, actually," replied Bolt. "It's quite a change from the cooped-up trailer I’ve been used to all these years. Nice country around here -- lots of room to stretch out and go for runs, looks like."

"Well, let me be the first to welcome you to the neighborhood," said the spaniel. "Name’s Duke. As in John Wayne, or so I've been told. And yeah, there's lots of wide-open space around here. Glad to hear you like to run -- I do, too. Looking for a jogging partner?"

"Sure! I'll bet you know the best routes for that," replied the little shepherd. "Oh, silly me -- where are my manners? I’m Bolt."

"Pleased to meet you," said Duke. "It definitely looks like you'll be a real credit to the neighborhood. The kind of critter we need more of around these parts. Good guys like you don't just grow on trees, I'll say that."

Bolt tilted his head in puzzlement. "Gee, I hope not. Never knew a dog that sprouted off a sapling before. It's not like we're acorns or something."

"Funny guy!" chuckled the spaniel. "I like that in a neighbor. So, whaddya say we go for a trot up the road a ways? You'll find country smells to be varied and fascinating. There's a turkey farm that's agreeably pungent not far from here."

"Lead the way," said Bolt as they dashed off. "I’m game."

"So are the turkeys, from what I hear," laughed Duke.

The two dogs became friends in no time with the little shepherd dropping by to visit his new pal almost every day.

Part II: Charlie Freak

Walter and Gwendolyn were computer programmers and led a busy, if fairly mundane existence. They worked long hours at the office, hoping to pay their mortgage off early. Lunch hours were spent at the local health club, and they came home only to eat a quick dinner and sleep. Their 15-year-old son, however, was odd to say the least and not in a good way. Frank seemingly shared none of his parents’ interests or values. A loner and a poor student, he spent most all his time locked in his room, playing video games or surfing the Internet when not at school. He often got into contentious fights on social media sites and in chat forums, with Duke ordinarily by his side and eagerly reading along.

As time went on, Frank began to gravitate away from video game- and music-based forums to darker parts of the Web, exploring sites run by home-spun militias and hate speech organizations. Here, he found kindred spirits who liked weapons and hated people different from themselves. It wasn’t long afterward that Frank began sneaking small explosives like cherry bombs and M80s as well as firearms and ammunition into the house when his parents were at work, hiding the contraband in his closet.

He often fantasized about causing bodily harm to his fellow classmates, the better to make them pay for shunning or making fun of him -- and that went double for any gay, Black, Asian, Jewish, or Muslim students. In no time, Frank had joined the Caucasian Rights Endorsement, Education, and Protection Society, receiving a member’s certificate, several placards, and a number of military style dog tags sporting an upraised fist above two lightning bolts, the group’s logo.

Part III: Parker's Band

A week had gone by, and Bolt and Duke’s latest trek was abruptly curtailed by a sudden sleet squall. Fortunately, they were close by the latter's house at the time.

"C’mon -- let's head inside," said the red spaniel as they ran for the doggy door, scattering a trio of pigeons on the porch in the process. "Hate being caught in weather like this. Mats up my fur something awful. You're lucky, having short hair like you do."

The little shepherd shrugged. "Can't complain any," he said with a grin. "I do get kinda dirty easily, being white-colored and all, so Penny has to brush me off about twice a week. But that's the worst of it. Gotta admit, though, the brushing usually feels good. Plus it's just one more way I know how much my person cares about me."

"Glad you like it a lot, ‘cause grooming is hell for me. Combs and brushes snag and pull my fur. Can't stand it, myself. Tell you what -- how's about we listen to some music till the storm blows over? Probably will in an hour or so -- they usually seem to do that around here." The cocker spaniel grabbed a couple of CDs from a piled stack on the floor. "Bolt, old boy, I think it's time I introduced you to the wondrous joys of Bebop."

Bolt arched a brow in amusement. "That's a new one on me," he said. "Sounds like the noise a ping-pong ball makes when it's getting batted around or something. Or what you hear when you’re playing bongo drums, maybe."

"Well you, my friend, are in for a treat. Sit back and feast your ears on some of this." Duke popped a disc in the CD player and grinned as "Ornithology" by Charlie Parker came bubbling through the speakers, all bouncy and energetic and nervous. "Relaxin’ at Camarillo" and "Moose the Mooche," two numbers in the same ebullient vein, soon followed.

Parker, known by the nickname "Bird," was a saxophonist and the primary exponent of this kinetic style of jazz originating in the 1940s. He was driven and ambitious, determined to raise jazz from what he considered simple entertainment status to an uncompromising, intellectual art form worthy of the highest regard. A lifelong struggle with addiction to alcohol and drugs marred and shortened both his career and his life, but Parker still managed to make his mark and become one of the giants of the genre.

"You like?" asked the spaniel. When Bolt nodded, he switched discs. "Let's slow it down just a wee bit," said Duke as the smoother, cooler, more soulful number "Bird of Paradise" floated from the machine, followed by "Billie’s Bounce" and "Bongo Bop," two selections that exhibited a more jaunty, loping, bluesy feel. They spent the better part of an hour immersed in the fine playing of Parker and his bandmates while a persistent underscore of wind gusts provided subtle counterpoint.

The sleet shower ended part way through the last tracks, "Yardbird Suite" and "Scrapple from the Apple," two slightly less frenetic though still plenty lively Bebop examples.

"Wow!" said the little shepherd. "Can't say I've heard anything like that before. Really great stuff. Thanks for sharing with me."

"Hey -- nothin’s too good for a best pal!" laughed Duke.

Bolt thought a second. "Now I get it," he said excitedly. "I wondered what that song was all about. Shoulda figured it was something wonderful like this."

"You're talking in riddles, my friend," said the red pooch quizzically. "What song?"

The little shepherd chuckled. "Oh, that tune ‘Parker’s Band’ by Steely Dan. Surprised you didn't guess it, actually."

Duke’s expression darkened suddenly. "Steely Dan? You're kidding, right? You don't really listen to junk like that, do you?"

"Well -- well sure, once in… once in a while," stammered Bolt uneasily. He didn't understand why his friend had become irritated. "I’ve never minded hearing music that's good, no matter what kind of style it's in. Clever lyrics, sophisticated… "

"It's a horror show!" interrupted the spaniel angrily. "They’re… they’re a lousy, stinking pop band! Them and their kind bastardized the great work of artists like Bird and Mingus and Dolphy and Coltrane. Even Miles Davis sold out to that evil stuff. And bands like Steely Dan and Weather Report and Soft Machine are the worst -- unapologetically skating by on the coattails of true jazz greatness!"

"But… but I… " said the shepherd.

"No buts!" growled Duke. "You don't compromise with evil. You disavow it! You destroy it! It's your duty as a right-thinking citizen, for dog’s sake! Otherwise, it slowly eats away the foundation of all that’s good and true, like termites in a stately Victorian house. It's insidious and must be stopped!"

The little white pooch was taken aback by the tirade. "What's with him?" he wondered. "It's no big deal. Not at all. Heck -- it's just music. Personal taste. Nobody's gonna die if they listen to ‘Rikki Don't Lose That Number’, are they? I don't get it." The shepherd shrugged it off, though. After all, being a friend involves accepting the other fellow's foibles and faults as well as enjoying the good things you share. "I guess it's just an eccentric hot button issue for him," he mused. "I'll cut him some slack on this."

"Hey, hey -- don't worry about it. I was just… just kidding around," said Bolt, putting a paw on the spaniel’s shoulder. "I'm not exactly knocked out by that stuff or anything. Television and movies are more my thing anyway. C’mon, the sleet has stopped, and I'll bet there's lots of great new muddy puddles out there to check out. If they're just gonna bathe and brush us anyway, we might as well make ‘em work for it, huh?"

A smile crept across Duke’s muzzle. "Sure, sure. No problem. I knew you and I were like two eggs from the same carton," he said. "Okay, you win. I'll probably pay for it later when I get cleaned up, but let’s go find a mud slick that's big enough for us both to wallow in. Whaddya say?"

"I say let's get dirty!" laughed Bolt as they scampered out the doggy door.

Part IV: Monkey in Your Soul

Being in a home again for the first time in a few years, Mittens quickly rediscovered the joys of things like television. Given Rhino’s obsessive affinity for the "magic box" as he called it, though, she soon reached a saturation point and felt the need to branch out into other fare. The cat had observed Penny and her mom using the CD player and soon got the hang of the various buttons and disc tray, thereby confirming her art form of choice. Classical music exclusively occupied her listening time at first, but Mittens didn't mind exploring pop music options, either.

Penny had left a disc cued up in the CD player that Monday morning when she headed to school, and like most cats, Mittens was a curious sort -- sufficiently so that she wanted to discover what was on it. The girl’s biology lab partner had groaned upon discovering the kind of music Penny preferred. "NSYNC? Hanson? Christina Aguilera? No no no no no! Friends don't let friends exist on an exclusive diet of that kind of stuff. Here, let me loan you a few things to broaden those musical horizons of yours a little, okay?" One of the handful of discs Penny had brought home was a mixed CD of Bruce Springsteen, which she discovered she liked a lot. Turned out Mittens did as well. An eclectic combination of tunes was represented, ranging from singles such as "I’m Goin’ Down" to "Point Blank" to "I’m on Fire" to choice album tracks like "The Price You Pay" and "Jungleland" and "The Ties That Bind."

The urgent, impassioned anthem "No Surrender" pulsed steadily through the speakers when Bolt irritably entered the study. He had been in a neighboring room reading a book of short stories by Saki; having just finished off "Tobermory" (about a cat who quickly wears out his welcome once he is taught to talk), the little shepherd was about to start in on "The Hounds of Fate." Unfortunately, he found the music extremely distracting.

"Mittens!" the pooch barked. "Would you shut that darned thing off? Or at least listen to something worthwhile, like Brahms or Billie Holliday? I can't focus on my story!"

The cat defensively hunched into a ball and hastily stopped the machine in mid-verse. Bolt hadn't snapped at her that harshly since the first several days they had known each other, when the angry shepherd had kidnapped her under the mistaken notion that, like all cats, she was an agent of Dr. Calico from his TV show. "Okay, okay -- calm down there, Cujo," she mewled. "You don't have to bite my head off or anything. I can take a hint. Was just, y’know, seeing what Penny left in the machine. Don't worry, I'll find something else to listen to. Take it easy."

"Well -- all right," grumbled the dog. "But keep it down, willya? I've been really, really easy to distract lately. Be a little more considerate from now on, okay?"

Mittens frowned as she hunted through the disc rack trying to find Brahms’s Second Symphony, a work she especially enjoyed. "Geez, what's with him?" she thought perplexedly. "All he had to do was ask me nice. It's not like I’m Shere Khan or anything. Oh well -- must be having a peach of a day, I guess." It didn't seem like just an isolated bad mood, though.

Part V: Pretzel Logic

1.

The two pooches had just finished listening to a brace of John Coltrane selections after a spirited outdoor trot the following week.

"Gotta say, you sure know some great jazz," mused Bolt. "And you'll be happy to know that there hasn't been any pop music played at Penny’s all week now. I put a stop to that -- it’s just been Classical these days. Since we don't have any jazz albums at home, I've been relying on you for my fix of Bop and Swing."

The red dog grinned. "Glad to be of service -- anytime, pal. I'd call you a cool cat if it weren't such a grievous insult."

"Gee, I dunno," said the shepherd hesitantly. "You think all cats are as bad as that?"

"Of course!" Duke scowled. "I remember you telling me about those little stinkers that used to tease you night after night in your trailer. Kinda like what happens with my person at school. Ugh -- cats! They’re all the same."

"Well, maybe not all… " the white pooch began.

"No maybes! Haven't you ever noticed how aloof they are? They all think they're better than us, no doubt about it," growled the spaniel. "But everyone knows dogs are the true superior beings. Cats smell weird, too, and they look so… so… primitive and Neanderthal. Strange looking lips, and raspy tongues, and low foreheads. They’re way, way down on the evolutionary scale. It's just so obvious. Haven't you noticed?"

"Eh, I guess some might not exactly be model citizens," said Bolt warily. "But there are nice cats, too. Or at least that's been my experience."

Duke only seemed to be half-listening at this point. "Look, buddy boy, take it from me. Any cat who’s nice is faking it. Trying to get in good with their human while they scarf down Flouncy Feast, barf on the rug, scratch up the furniture, and go sneak off to hide in the closet. It's just a big fat snow job!"

That got under the little shepherd’s skin a bit. "Mittens hasn't exactly warmed up to Penny and her mom, has she?" he thought. "She seems wary and standoffish. Maybe Duke’s right -- maybe she doesn't appreciate Penny’s kindness like I do." In truth, Mittens had been left emotionally scarred by her first owners, and as a result had significant trust issues to come to grips with -- but Duke could be eloquent and persuasive. "Maybe you've got something there," said Bolt a bit hesitantly.

"Hey, I'm your best pal. Your jazz buddy. Would I steer you wrong?" the cocker spaniel asked. "Listen, I've wanted to do this for a while now," he continued. "You're like the brother I never had, y’know?" Duke held out a dog tag to Bolt. "I've been wearing one of these for some time. Frank got them in the mail, and I want to give you one of these as a token of our friendship. The fist symbolizes me -- as in ‘put up your dukes’, y’know? And the lightning symbolizes you. Wear it in good health."

Bolt clipped the tag onto his own collar, much like Duke had done to his own. "Thanks! Brothers?"

The red spaniel looked at the potted cactus next to the CD player, then jabbed his paw, drawing blood. "Blood brothers," he intoned solemnly.

"Okay," said the white pooch as he pricked his own pad on the same cactus needle. He drew blood and touched Duke’s reddened paw pad. "Blood brothers."

"No retreat. No surrender," said the cocker spaniel with emphasis.

"Agreed," Bolt replied. But he also thought, "Funny. I've heard that phrase somewhere before. Where was it again?"

2.

It had been two days since the dogs had sworn their blood oath, and the little shepherd’s paw still hadn't healed up properly. Penny noticed Bolt’s sudden limp and spirited him off to Dr. Burkitt, the local veterinarian. He diagnosed an infection, putting antibiotic salve on the pooch’s foot and wrapping it to keep the wound clean. As a result, Bolt was forced to stay inside and rest his sore paw. Walks and conditioning runs, either alone or with Duke, would have to wait several days.

Having seen the dog’s bandage, Rhino decided to keep his friend company. "So, what happened to you?" he asked. "You've been favoring that foot for a couple days now. Stub your toe or something?"

"Oh, it's nothing," the pooch replied. "Stuck it with a cactus spine a couple days ago."

"By accident?" the little rodent said doubtfully. "You’d have to have stumbled into a hothouse display or a potted plant to do that. In an upward motion, no less. You've got your faults, but being clumsy isn't one of them."

"Well, you got me on that one," admitted the shepherd. "You know Duke, the cocker spaniel I’ve been hanging around with lately? We decided to cement our friendship officially. Blood brothers, he called it." 

"Huh," said the skeptical hamster. "Pretty solemn and fancy ritual to go through just for two best buddies."

Bolt shrugged. "It seemed to matter to him a lot, for some reason. I’m okay with it, I guess. Sometimes you do odd things like that for a pal. Or so I've been told."

"I suppose," Rhino mumbled while shaking his head. He next looked at the dog’s collar with interest, saying, "Hey, that's new. Where'd you get the fancy tag?"

"Duke again," the little shepherd explained. "He’s been wearing his for some time now, apparently. Said the logo symbolizes the two of us. I don't know if they were custom-made or not. If so, it seems like he went to a lot of trouble. But maybe that means he cared enough to do something special."

The hamster looked at the tag’s insignia. "I've seen this somewhere before. I think it was… " His grin suddenly vanished, replaced by a concerned frown. "Oh, now I remember. It was on that documentary show on the Historical Channel about… about… Uh, Bolt -- what's your friend like, anyway?"

"Oh, I dunno, seems mostly normal. Enjoys exercising like I do, listens to jazz a lot. Gets kinda angry and one-track sometimes, though," the pooch replied.

"Did he say anything about disliking minorities or being a supremacist? Because I'm pretty sure this is the insignia for a hate speech group," said Rhino anxiously.

Bolt thought for a second. "No, but he despises cats. Come to think of it, he seems really prejudiced against them."

The little rodent shook his head. "Look, my friend. I think there’s something sinister going on with all this. You might want to seriously rethink that friendship you swore a blood oath to. And I've noticed something else, by the by. You've been snappish and mean to Mittens lately. She mentioned something about it the other day and was wondering if maybe she’d done something wrong. No wonder she stopped listening to music and is hiding in the closet these days."

"Duke said cats are just nice to humans so they can get food and shelter from them, that they actually hate people," said the pooch irritably. "Wouldn't surprise me if Mittens were just the same as any other cat."

"Now just a darned minute," shouted the hamster while raising himself up to full height. "That doesn't sound at all like the independent alley cat we both first met. I'll admit, neither of us treated Mittens with much respect initially because we were laboring under the delusion that she was Dr. Calico’s evil minion. But we both learned otherwise soon enough. I thought we’d put that silliness behind us a few months ago."

The little shepherd was now thoroughly perplexed. "Am I being unfair to Mittens?" he wondered. "And is my friend Duke really a raging bigot? What do I do now?" He shook his head in confusion. "I really need to think about all this," he finally said to Rhino. "Nothing’s adding up right anymore. Someone is full of hooey around here, and I have to figure out who it is."

"Just remember, Bolt," said the hamster purposefully. "I've always looked up to you in the past, and I really hope I can continue to do so in the future. In your heart, you know what needs to happen here." With that, Rhino rolled off to the television to watch the Spike Lee film "Do the Right Thing," leaving the confused pooch to his pondering.

Part VI: Through with Buzz

Once his foot finally healed up, the little shepherd cautiously entered Duke’s yard, where he found the red spaniel rolling in a mud puddle.

"I've got a brushing-out session coming up soon. Thought I might as well get plenty mucked up and give Frank a good reason to clean me off," he said. "Long time no see, my brother! What's new with you?"

Bolt didn't answer, though. "How do you ask a friend questions like this?" he wondered to himself while staring at the ground.

"You look like you're carrying an anvil on your back, pal of mine," said Duke searchingly. "Something's clearly bothering you. Out with it. You can tell me."

"I sure hope so," said Bolt nervously. "That tag you gave me, the one you said symbolizes our friendship. Where did you get it? You didn't have it custom-made, did you?"

The spaniel fidgeted. "Well, no -- not exactly. My person joined this organization a month or so ago."

"What kind of organization?" asked the shepherd.

"It's -- it's some kind of education and advocacy group, I think," Duke explained. "For oppressed white people, I'm pretty sure."

A shocked look flashed from Bolt’s face. "You mean a supremacist organization, don't you? They’re a hate group. How -- how can you and Frank even think of endorsing something like that?"

"Bolt, Bolt, Bolt… it's not exactly that way. Not with me, at least," the red dog tried to reassure him. "It's cats I despise. You understand, am I right? What about those nasty felines from your show you told me about?"

The little shepherd arched his brow warily. "Just because they were a couple of rotten cucumbers doesn't mean all cats are that way. I share a household with a cat. You knew that, didn’t you?"

"What?" shouted Duke angrily. "You conveniently forgot to mention that little tidbit to me. How can you accept such a travesty of all that's right? You shouldn't be allowing an evil creature like that to live with you. You should have killed it, and long ago."

"No! No!" said the white dog incredulously. "She’s been very nice to me for the most part. And I can’t say I’ve been all that pleasant to her recently, either. Something Rhino went to some trouble to remind me of a few days ago."

The spaniel shook his head in confusion. "Rhino? You've got a game preserve on your property or something? Who the heck is that?"

"He’s my little hamster buddy at home. In fact, he’s the biggest fan of my old show that I’ve ever met," said Bolt.

"Oh, so now you’re taking advice from dinner, too?" groaned Duke. "Talk about having no stinkin’ standards."

The shepherd frowned, reaching for the fist-and-lightning tag on his collar and pulling it off. "Look, I… I can't wear this. The organization connected to this goes against everything I believe in. I’m… I’m really, really sorry but I just… I just can't."

"You coward! You turncoat! I trusted you!" screamed the spaniel furiously. "I had a little neighborhood beautification and renewal project all planned for the two of us to carry out, too. But it looks like you're not the dog I thought you were."

"No," said Bolt with a solemn air of finality. "I most definitely am not." He dropped the tag into the mud next to Duke, turned his back on his former friend, and walked away sadly.

Duke, covered from snout to tail in brown muck, lurched angrily to his feet. "Cat lover!" he yelled sourly. "Lousy, rotten, no-good cat lover! Don’t ever come by here again, you disgusting loser!"

Part VII. With a Gun

1.

"Oddest thing," said Penny to her mom several days later. "I was out bike riding, headed off to the library this afternoon, when I saw another dead cat in the road. That's the third one this week."

"Well, those things happen sometimes, dear," the older woman replied. "Animals, even pets, aren’t as bright as people. And that's especially true of critters when there are cars around. Poor things -- they just don't know any better, I'm afraid."

Penny shrugged. "Maybe. But I've never gotten the idea that Bolt or Mittens would be careless. Or any other dog or cat I’ve known, either. Maybe I've only been around the smart ones or something. Anyway, it appears to be happening all of a sudden, ‘cause I don't remember seeing any before this. It's just cats, too. No wild animals or dogs or farm critters. Oh well -- it seemed strange, but maybe it's only a coincidence."

Mittens had overheard the conversation from the study, and she agreed with Penny. "I've known more than a few cats in my day," she thought. "Sure, some are stupid enough to get hit by cars, but they don't usually live long. Unless there's been a litter of extra boneheaded youngsters brought into the world recently, I can't imagine this is normal. Wonder what's goin’ on?" She hadn't been tempted to go outside given the chilliness and intermittent wintry precipitation, but now she felt certain she was going to stay indoors for a while -- at least until things seemed less threatening.

"There's no way there’d be a ‘Jack the Ripper’ with a specialty in cats. Not out here in a bucolic setting like this, right?" thought the cat. "But why take chances? There's a TV, and lots of music and books, and great spots to hunker down and snooze. That should keep me gainfully occupied for a while."

Bolt also overheard the exchange between his humans from the entrance foyer. "Sheesh!" he grumbled. "Too dumb to stay out from under a moving car, I guess. It's easy to avoid vehicles if you're paying a little attention. Heck, I do it all the time." The little shepherd decided now was a good time to go out on a conditioning run and exited via the doggy door.

2.

The pooch was a couple miles along, going at a sturdy trot, when he heard sirens coming from behind him. He scampered to the side of the road, letting a fire truck and police car zoom past.

"Hmmm, wonder what's going on? Nobody's house is burning down or anything, I hope. Guess I'll follow along and investigate," said Bolt to himself. He ramped up his speed, managing to keep the racing emergency vehicles within sight.

A mile or so further down the road, the fire engine and police car pulled over abruptly. The top of a tractor-trailer truck loomed just beyond them. There weren't a lot of trees in this rural area, but the firemen were headed for one of the few located nearby.

"Get me down from here, dang it!" came a voice from high above. As it turned out, there was a cat stranded on one of the branches, a thin orange tabby who was on the cusp of elderly status. It appeared likely he lived in the nearby working farm about a quarter mile distant.

"Nice kitty," said one of the firemen, who was carrying a ladder. "Don't worry, fella -- we’ll get you back on the ground where you belong in just a few minutes."

"Got your gloves on?" asked his partner. "That cat looks pretty shook up. He might panic and scratch you a good one. Wonder why he ran all the way up there, anyway? Something must have really scared him badly."

"Help! Get me outta this tree!" the tabby wailed. "Consarned dog! I was just in that field, catchin’ a mouse and mindin’ my own business. Dang blasted cur starts chasin’ me inta the road, right in front of a truck. It's like… like he was tryin’ to kill me or sumthin’. Mean stinker he was, too. Ya know, it just ain't safe around here no more… "

"Real yowler, isn't he?" said the fireman with the ladder. "It's okay, kitty -- I won’t hurt you. Just wanna get you down."

"Got lucky," the cat loudly continued. "Managed to sneak between the truck's wheels and make it up the tree to safety. Don't reckon the dog was so fortunate, though. Serves him right, too! He tried to kill me! Get me down from here!"

Bolt stood staring at the orange tabby, realizing at last what had happened. "No, no, it couldn't be," he said, his voice shaking. "No, no -- oh please, no… "

The little shepherd nervously dashed beyond the fire engine and police car. Between them and the stopped eighteen-wheeler was a sight he had hoped against hope not to encounter. It was the body of his former friend Duke, lying hideously mangled in the middle of the road. His crushed head oozed blood from what was left of his disfigured snout, and his insides were splattered everywhere, like a psychotic’s rendition of a Jackson Pollock drip painting. Four crows, who had been eagerly investigating the spaniel’s remains, hastily flapped away as the white dog approached. A man he assumed was the nearby truck’s owner sat on the running board, shaking his head sadly. "Poor thing," he murmured. "I couldn't stop in time. He never had a chance. Some poor family’s really gonna miss him. I feel so awful." Bruce Springsteen’s "Wreck on the Highway" wafted plaintively from the truck's open window.

The pooch gaped in utter shock, unable to move or speak. In his six years of existence so far, Bolt had experienced more than his share of horrific situations, but ones concerning death had been extremely rare -- and certainly hadn't involved a being he knew. The violent episodes from his television show had been of the bloodless, sanitized, and cartoonish variety, nowhere near as stark or jolting as this. The shepherd couldn't stand to look at his ex-friend’s body any longer and ran to the side of the road, vomiting so wrenchingly that he thought his stomach would turn inside out.

"It was Duke all along," he finally gasped. "That's why Penny saw those dead cats in the road. He had been chasing them into the street, trying to get them run over. Some neighborhood improvement project!" The stunned dog shook his head in disbelief. "I can’t believe he became… he became so consumed with hate. With such an awful, irrational hate that he would do such a terrible thing. How can any being end up like this? How can anyone’s soul be so empty and cruel?"

The trembling pooch slowly walked home, head hanging down and face frozen in stupor, still mumbling to himself in disbelief.

It proved to be a bad series of days all around for Penny’s neighboring family. Frank did not take the news of his dog’s death well, and sadly, it pushed him over the edge. A few days later, he posted threatening messages against his classmates of color in an online chat forum and shot out the windows of his junior high school with a rifle he had previously stashed away. The boy was summarily hauled into court and convicted of vandalism, threating behavior, illegal firearms possession, and hate crimes, sentenced to a long stretch in the state’s detention facility for minors in hopes that it might rehabilitate him eventually. Walter and Gwendolyn moved away soon afterwards.

Part VIII: Any Major Dude Will Tell You

As Bolt slowly plodded back home, a light snow began to fall, though he was too preoccupied to notice. The little shepherd shook himself off once he reached the porch, but didn't go inside the farmhouse right away. He sat near the front steps and hung his head sadly. "How could I have been so gullible? So totally unaware?" he said. "How did I misjudge everything so completely? I gave my friendship to someone who simply didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve it in the least." The dog closed his eyes and frowned, lost in thought for a long time until a horrified expression crossed his face. "And… and all the time, the best, the truest friend I could ever want has been… has been right there, sitting under my nose. Somebody really should stick a dunce cap with the word ‘stupid’ on my head, no question."

He finally entered by way of the doggy door and crept into the study. Mittens had begun listening to the Steely Dan album "Pretzel Logic" but quickly shut the music off when she realized she had company. Arguably the finest album ever released by this essential group, it’s also their most forthright and heartfelt. Steely Dan was best known for their smooth, well-crafted songs that exude a jazz-tinged coolness, but "Pretzel Logic" is a uniquely special utterance from their excellent output.

The pooch avoided Mittens’s look and lay in front of the picture window, sighing as he stared blankly outside. "No, no, Mittens -- it's okay," he said softly. "You don't have to stop listening on account of me. Really -- it's all right. Won't bother me at all."

Mittens hesitated, but went ahead and resumed her album. Given the way the little shepherd had been acting lately, she was reluctant to talk to him, even though he seemed to have a lot of heavy thoughts on his mind right now.

"Mittens, I… I… ," the dog began tentatively. "Um… can we… can we talk?"

She nodded warily. "Sure. What about?"

"Look," he sighed. "I want to apologize for the way I've been these last several weeks. I was mean and cruel to you, and you didn't deserve to be treated like that. It’s… it’s all my fault. My own stupid fault. My friendship with Duke brought back all that old prejudice I used to feel towards cats. He… he reawakened those awful ideas in my head, and I was too blind and confused to see just how… how misguided and manipulative he was. Duke -- well, he wasn't a real friend, just a… a very bad dog who wanted a partner for what turned out to be some really horrible stuff. I almost fell for it, too."

The cat silently padded over to the little shepherd and sat next to him.

Tears trickled down Bolt’s face as he spoke in a shaky voice. "Those dead cats in the road -- they… they were all Duke’s doing. He had been chasing them into the street, trying to get them hit by oncoming cars. But… but today, he got killed trying it again. I can't believe he'd do such an awful thing. Still… it's hard seeing someone you knew so well lying dead in the road like that. No matter how horrible he may have been." He shuddered to think about it once again.

The pooch continued, trying hard not to start crying. "But you know the worst thing? I totally forgot what real friendship was. Mittens, you've been truly wonderful to me most of the time we've known each other, and I lost sight of that, completely and utterly. I... I haven't always been nice to you, I know. But only a true friend would have shown a dummy like me what a real dog is supposed to be like. Would have gone to all that trouble and risk trying to set up a life for the two of us in Vegas. Would have… would have run back to tell me I was wrong about Penny. That she truly loved me, and that seeing her hugging that other dog in the studio was just a horrible misunderstanding."

Bolt briefly glanced at Mittens, shivered, and then tremulously resumed. "Penny would have… oh my dog… would have died in that studio fire if you hadn't come back to find me. You did all that… all that because you cared about me. And what did I do? I took you for granted, and threw away the friendship and kindness you had shown me like it was a dirty old rag or something. I can't forgive myself for being so ungrateful and so unfair. I can only hope and pray that you'll be kinder to me than I was to you, and somehow find it in your heart to… to forgive me. Dog only knows, I certainly… certainly don't deserve it, and I… I wouldn't… wouldn’t blame you if you didn't… " Bolt finally couldn't hold back any longer, putting his head in his paws and sobbing quietly.

Mittens gazed out the window. The shepherd was right -- he had been pretty awful to her at times, especially lately -- and she hadn't deserved such shabby treatment. And prejudice like this is nasty stuff indeed when you're on the receiving end of it. She thought further, though. "Really, I'm not sure how friendly I've been to Penny and her mom since I came here. They're probably just chalking it up to natural cat aloofness and my being in a new environment, but I know it’s not really that. They've been so sweet to me -- not like my old owners at all -- and I've been letting my trust issues get in the way of something special. I'm afraid I haven't been the epitome of virtue myself. Besides, if I’m really Bolt’s friend, I need to cut him a little slack here. Even your best buddies do dumb things every once in a while, and I think he’s sincerely sorry."

The song "Any Major Dude Will Tell You" quietly wafted from the speakers as the cat put a paw on the crying dog’s head and stroked him affectionately. "Nah, it's okay," she finally said. "Don’t worry about it. What kind of a friend would I be if I held a silly slip-up like that against you? I could afford to take a few kindness pills myself sometimes, know what I mean? Not a problem -- I forgive you."

Bolt looked at her and smiled sadly, sniffing back tears. "Thanks. I owe you, big time. You’re one in a billion. This will never, ever happen again. I swear it. From now on, I'm going to treat you like the friend you really are, every minute of every day. You deserve it."

Mittens nodded. "Thanks. Glad to hear you say that."

They spent the next few hours watching the gently falling snow in silence.


End file.
